Sinful
by faeryespell
Summary: I have just committed a sin that crosses the line of what the religious call ‘mortal’. How could she have wanted this, this poor excuse for a life? I damn myself to the depths beyond the Hell I am already in.


**A/N**: I so wanted to write a Twilight fic! And I wanted to give writing from Edward's point of view a shot, the way _I_ see him. So mind you, these are his _thoughts_, so they're going to be quite… wide-ranged. Happy reading!

Sinful

I have just committed a sin that crosses the line of what the religious call 'mortal'. What _I_ call beyond inhuman redemption. It is a sin so vile, so unworthy of even being classified as unforgivable. And yet, by calling it a sin, I am accusing my own father of corruption. No, Carlisle is anything but corrupted, sinful. He is my savior, but then does this foul sin I have committed make me _her_ savior? No. It cannot. It _should_ not.

How could she have wanted this, this poor excuse for a _life_? No, I am not rebuking her –how can I? She is my love, my… _everything_, for lack of a better word. I can soliloquize for days on end, no, _centuries_, on just the mere matter of her eyes. And as of this moment, I will never have another opportunity to see them dance with human life. They will undergo a considerable change, yes, a profound transformation, but they will never be as they were only moments before: sparkling with naïve innocence, blinking with natural necessity. As of this moment, they will become naught but accursed reflections of my own eyes, perpetually changing, tirelessly watching, devoid of light.

She is still beautiful. She has always been, and will always be, beautiful. But I have just stripped her of her beauty's _ordinariness_, tainting her face with a mask of deceptive exquisiteness. Her skin will no longer glow the color of young sand –it will be the very likeness of porcelain, shimmering with the radiant rays of the sun but not with its heat; her lips will never pale again –it will be painted with blood for all eternity.

Blood. How irony plays with life so cruelly. Her lips will now serve as a constant reminder to me that she was terrified of blood her entire human lifetime, an irrational fear of hers I shall always cherish dearly; but with _this_ lifetime, she cannot have enough of it, the intoxicating liquid, the sensual allure of its scent. I should know, and I _do_. All too well, unfortunately. Oh, how cruelly ironic indeed.

I inhale deeply, letting the last wisps of her natural aroma fill my nostrils like a poisonous gas. Will her scent change along with her appearance? Will it blend into the bittersweet smell that radiates from beings of my kind? Again, I cannot believe the potential consequences of what I have done. Her scent will always attract me, intoxicate me very much like living blood does; but is it to change now that her skin will no longer be naturally alive and naturally capable of producing it? I damn myself. I damn myself to the depths beyond the Hell I am already in.

"Edward…"

She calls my name ever so softly, her honeyed voice broken. And another, choking wave of guilt washes over me. What had possessed me to hurl such an atrocious burden upon my love's delicate, trembling shoulders? What now, will her body become a moving statue, her voice a taunting, misleading trill? My sisters are of such, but I am not opposing them; I adore them with every fiber of my undead being, and I believe them to be magnificent goddesses. But… yes, I also believe that they are monsters. Myself, especially. But my love, my beautiful Bella… it pains me beyond my capability to watch her become the same monster. She does not deserve this. She will _never_ deserve this. But I cannot change the past, not even a few, mere _minutes_ of it. Otherwise, I would gladly destroy myself for biting her.

I can do it now, actually. It would be quite a simple task; I had done it once before, and I can do it again. The Volturi, of all undead beings, understand this damned sin. But do they really? Have they actually performed it themselves, I wonder? They _are_ recognized as protectors of our kind, so does that mean they refrain from inflicting this curse upon unwary humans? I admit I do not fully comprehend their ways, their behavior in the absence of foreign vampires, like myself. But standards of living aside, we are all vampires, one way or the other. We are all monsters, however intelligent, strong, powerful, or _immortal_ we are. It is only logical: human beings consider animals who feed on other animals as predators; we feed on animals, and that makes us the base of the food chain as cold, merciless murderers. I choose to overlook the fact that even human beings devour animals. At least they do not experience the insatiable desire for warm blood.

"I… can't move."

She has spoken the words which, in the opinion of any undead being, are more of an understatement in their meaning. I can see it her angelic, twisted face, too: the venom is starting to take effect. I can almost see it, attempting to claw its way beneath her skin, from her neck to, eventually, the rest of her frail body. I know very well that our venom conveniently resembles saliva, but I think I'd be considerably happier seeing it as dark and foul as tar; it would suit my attitude towards it. I have reason of abhorring it so: it spreads a blaze through your body so agonizing that you reach a point where you feel like every limb is being ripped to shreds. And that would be putting it mildly.

She utters a deafening, human heart-breaking scream. The sentence I have bestowed upon my love is starting: the sentence of that _excruciating_ torture. She could suffer for minutes, days, weeks… I find the thought unbearable. I clutch her hand, and she feebly replies by entwining her fingers with my own. Her skin is still soft, warm. Alive. Her lovely eyes flutter as she shrieks again, and my heart, would it be beating, constricts with a different kind of agony.

I cannot completely voice my guilt, love. The appropriate words of apology escape me, but know that I am truly, sincerely, sorry. I can only hope that, when the time comes of your awakening, your enhanced vampire eyes will seek me and still gaze at me with the love that I have come to prize above life itself.

I only hope, not expect. It is inevitable that you will never come to forgive me.

I am being selfish, and distinctly proud, by refusing to accept the fact that my soul still contends for salvation, what my love has so obstinately believed from the fateful moment of her discovery of my cursed identity. My soul no longer exists, in my opinion; I am but an empty corpse, a bystander to the constant river that is time.

Time… my gaze falls on Bella's twitching stomach. Imagine, if I had defied the laws of science and rearranged life as I know it, I would be gazing at a wonderful, plump baby instead. Bella's child. My child. Our beautifully human child. If I had been born the same era as Bella, vulnerable; ignorant to the existence of undead beings except to those portrayed in stories; _alive_…

It is interesting, how the simple subordinating conjunction known as 'if' laces the threads of a thousand visions of life, a million lost opportunities, an eternity of idealistic dreams. 'If' can change one's perspective of life for the better, or for the worst. I fear that it is the latter for me. For the rest of my infinite life, I shall harbor guilt of hurting my one love. If fate had loosened the strings attached to our destinies, I would have avoided meeting Bella altogether. And she would have had the opportunity of experiencing a normal marriage, pregnancy, motherhood, aging.

A slight breeze caresses my face; I automatically glance at the open window. As I do so, a sliver of sunlight peeks through the thick foliage of the tree outside and blinds me momentarily. I cannot feel the coolness of the wind, the warmth of the sun… only the distinct contrast between the two. Exactly like the neutral sensation one feels on touching two different textures simultaneously: a numb, rather _indifferent_ feeling, biased to neither texture. Life and death are very much like two different textures, come to think of it. Life, with all its light, vigor and color, harshly contrasted with cold, bleak death. And again, I feel only that contrast. I live every day by it, blind to the possibilities within life, scornful to those within death. I am in limbo, as human visionaries would say.

However, Bella is the one possibility in my life I can see, I am willing to pursue. And that means even when she herself is close to death.

Vampires only die under certain conditions, verily. So my meaning of death is metaphorical, referring to the depths of the empty chasm I dwell in now. This torture I feel, this pain of having to live this damned life. Death to my soul, is what I mean.

IT IS ALL I THINK ABOUT. MY SOUL IS DEAD.

Dead.

For all eternity.

What good can come out of biting Bella? Although… I _do_ wonder… I have the power to hear the thoughts of others, excluding her, and I only have it because I had been sensitive to other's feelings when I had been human. Another of Carlisle's many theories. Well, then, what power shall be bestowed upon Bella? I really doubt _my_ ability has seeped into her along with my venom.

For the sake of distraction, I allow myself to imagine the various possibilities of her potential power. Only one seems to jut out as significant.

Bella is a guilt-ridden person, one whose life revolves around many apologies, apologies willingly, if not unconsciously, given. I have come to notice this about her; she tends to feel guilt on the behalf on the people who actually deserve it. I know she has felt mine more often than not. So perhaps her power shall be similar to Jasper's, only quite the opposite. Instead of calming one's emotions, she twists them into turmoil. Well, that would be a rather frightening power, and I am certain she will not accept it.

Her fingers suddenly tighten their hold on mine, as if in disagreement. Yes, knowing my stubborn Bella, she will accept the power for the simple reason that I think she will not. Another odd, yet endearing, habit of hers; she will blatantly act against my wishes. Well, my love, this time you have indeed done so. If you need reminding in the days to come, the scar on your neck will surely act as an aid. I hope you will never come to regret it, the way I do. Indeed, I do not doubt I do. But on the other hand...

Let me entertain the thought that things may not be so bad after all, for Bella's sake. Say, hypothetically, my own perspective is of the wrong sort, that I am judging things much too personally. Say, hypothetically, what I have done is not a sin at all, but rather a feat, an accomplishment. If what my love says is true, that this curse is indeed what she wants, then I am content, for I have granted it to her. I have accomplished satisfying her happiness.

I lift her hand and press her wrist against my cold cheek. Her pulse is slowing, the time between the beats elongating as each second passes. Soon, the transformation will be complete, and my Bella shall stay by my side forevermore.

Forevermore. How can eternity be empty with my destiny near me, always within my reach? Well, I still believe that what I have done is a pure sin, but perhaps, just perhaps… there is a chance of redemption for me. Say Bella is my redemption. Say she is the one to cut me free of the ropes that bind me to my own self-torture. Say vampires _can_ spawn children…

A hint of a smile curls my dry lips upward, as my beautiful Isabella's pulse finally deadens.


End file.
